


on sleepless roads the sleepless go

by jolt



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 00's teen movie theatrics, Cinderella Story AU, High School AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/pseuds/jolt
Summary: Nomad609:what are you thinking of, right this minute?PrincetonBoy818:how many tables i’m gonna have to clean when i get to workNomad609:so you work at a restaurant huh? i’m so much closer to discovering your real identity!!!!!PrincetonBoy818:ha you wishNomad609:i actually do. when can we meet for real? i’m dying to know who u arePrincetonBoy818:soon!In which Mitch dreams of Princeton, works at his literal evil stepmother's diner, and has a secret online admirer who can't stop asking him to meet IRL.(Or, the Cinderella Story AU.)





	on sleepless roads the sleepless go

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is total and complete and utter fiction and not to be taken seriously in the slightest.  
> \- Warning for the OVERWHELMING AMOUNT OF FLUFF AND 00’S TEEN MOVIE CHEESY LINES THAT I DIDN’T CHANGE BECAUSE I WANTED TO KEEP THE INTEGRITY OF THE MOVIE AU  
> \- (I can’t believe this movie actually has a line about son, you’re throwing away your dream/no, dad, i’m throwing away yours. I also can’t believe Brian Matthews would ever be this kind of father, so excuse the OOC-ness)  
> \- Unspecified chat apps! 2000s teen movie theatrics! The full spectrum of teenage emotion! Clichés, clichés, and more clichés! A glowing and un-questioned acceptance of bisexual star athletes because this is my AU and not yours!  
> \- No offence to the Tkachuk bros, but they’re the best bros I could think of as occupying the role of evil step brothers.  
> \- Also, prepare yourself for a lotta tropes that only work within the paradigm of a 2000s teen movie, like the bitchy head cheerleader and the mean popular kids and the underdog hero, etc, but please just roll with.  
> \- And, hey, if you’ve (GASP) never seen A Cinderella Story, now might be a good time to watch the trailer or look up its IMDB page. Or actually watch the darn thing.  
> \- Title is from Hear You Me by Jimmy Eat World, which is THE SONG THEY KISS TO AT THE END OF THE MOVIE!!!

Mitch’s alarm startles him awake at 4:35 AM.

Blearily, he turns over in bed, and tries to drown out the sound of his _Sencha_ ringtone by grabbing the closest pillow and using it to cover his ears. He reaches for the phone on his nightstand and attempts to silence it without opening his eyes — or at least without reaching a further state of consciousness than necessary. It doesn’t work. A few solid seconds go by before Mitch hears a thumping sound through the wall, and for the third time this week, Mitch rues the day he chose the bedroom adjacent to his stepmother.

The thought is unpleasant enough to wake Mitch up fully. He manages to turn off the alarm, get out of bed, and assemble his work uniform without knocking into anything in the dark. Matt and Brady are shockingly sensitive to light, so they hate when he turns on a lamp in the morning, even though he keeps his door closed.

Mitch is out the front door at 4:49, figuring he’ll just grab breakfast at the diner, since he’s opening with Pat this morning. He pulls his bike out from the side of the house, and guns it down the street. It’s eerily quiet in North Valley at this time of the morning. All the same style five-bedroom four-and-a-half-bathroom houses line the street, each with a matching manicured lawn and identical luxury cars parked in the driveway. Only one or two of the houses don’t have in-ground pools, but the chances are, they all have at least one _Go Frogs Go_ sign appended to some part of their property. As a kid, Mitch loved the street. It was a great place to grow up, because the street was wide and quiet, so he and his dad could play catch out in front with barely any interruption. The neighbourhood kids were all nice, back then, too. They’d spend hours coming up with different games, and the afternoons after school were spent playing in a rotation of different kids’ backyards.

Everything changed when dad married Fiona, though. But Mitch doesn’t like to think about that, because it makes him really angry at his dad and he hates being mad at his dead father. Now, Mitch just resents this street, this neighbourhood, this whole damn town — the perfect image of upper-middle-class suburbia. 

He can’t fucking wait to get out of here.

Mitch makes it to the diner in record time. He knows it’s record time because he gets there a minute before Patty’s Mazda pulls into the staff driveway at the back of the diner.

“You’re eager,” Patty greets as he steps out of his car.

“I’m a model employee,” Mitch replies, baring his teeth in his best customer service smile.

Mitch’s whole life is a delicate balance of avoiding Fiona at home, and trying to stick it to her by doing a crappy job at the diner to sabotage her — but not such a crappy job as to get him, like, _fired_ , and therefore no longer have anywhere to escape to. Luckily, Pat helps make his life a little more tolerable. He’s funny and patient and kind, and he doesn’t take any more shit from Fiona than he has to. Mitch is reluctant to call him a father figure, but his own dad died when he was nine, and he’s been hard pressed to find another role model — if only because Fiona’s influence alone is nowhere near parental enough to ground him. Patty comes close, though. 

Mitch tosses Pat the keys to the front so he can have a moment to lock up his bike and check his phone. He was so busy rushing around earlier, he’d hardly had a chance to check his messages. Mitch’s heart palpitates momentarily when he swipes through his notifications and sees that he’s got a message from Nomad609. 

Nomad609 is…a long story, to say the least.

They met on the Princeton Hopeful Class of 2022 forum, and got to talking, and it just so happened that they lived in the same town and both attended North Valley High. It also turned out that they’re both dudes that are into dudes, they both love Carly Rae Jepsen, and have eerily identical senses of humour. They’re not quite pen pals, or AIM chat buddies, or anything like that, because this isn’t 2004. Mitch isn’t really sure _what_ they are. On some strange, virtual level, they’re friends. Probably. Although they likely push the boundaries of friendship, because, to make a long, weird story short, now they kind of talk at all hours of the day.

The back door opens and Pat pops his head through. “Mitch! I know you’re up in space right now, but these chairs aren’t gonna take themselves down.”

“Coming!” Mitch calls, not taking his eyes off the message.

_i’m ready to tear my hear out just thinking of this algebra quiz. my only consolation is talking to u_.

Things have been escalating lately, too. In terms of, like, the blatant flirtiness of their — but especially Nomad’s — messages. It’s fine and Mitch is totally in control of the situation.

Mitch’s hours of the day happen to regularly end at 9PM, since he usually has to be up before the rest of human civilization to open the diner. Nomad has a very loose grasp on Mitch’s whereabouts and occupation and circadian rhythm because, well…

They’ve never met. Nor exchanged IRL identities. And Mitch has no idea who Nomad could be, and he suspects Nomad’s entirely unaware about who he is as well. So this is all pretty much a huge shot in the dark. Only, Mitch _maybe_ has a very real crush on his virtual sort-of-friend not-pen-pal fellow-Princeton-hopeful Nomad609.

It’s not, like, a big _thing_ or anything. Honest.

It’s just that — Nomad sends him quotes, stuff out of poetry from centuries ago that their curriculum hasn’t even covered, and he’ll mean them about _Mitch_. Like, this one time, he told Mitch ( _Mitch_ ) that h _alf the night I waste in sighs, half in dreams I sorrow after the delight of early skies; in a wakeful doze I sorrow for the hand, the lips, the eyes, for the meeting of the morrow._ It’s possible he just Googled it, but Mitch _knows_ that’s not one of Tennyson’s most obvious works. Meaning he’s either really smart, or he flipped through Google until he found the right quote to Mitch. Either way, it’s, like, stupid romantic.

Nomad _cares_ about what Mitch has to say. And not in a guidance counsellor type of way, or even in a “latch on to key talking points to make it easier to catfish you” type of way, either. Genuinely. He’s smart and ambitious and _thoughtful_ and he makes Mitch _actually_ laugh out loud and —

Okay, it’s kind of a big thing.

Mitch has never been in love, unless you count the grocery store checkout clerk, whose cash Mitch always goes to. Which he _doesn’t_. Mitch doesn’t even count the guy he made out with at a party two counties over one time. He likes to think his dad raised him to uphold love, real love, as something more than a sloppy make out session in a dimly lit basement. Love involves knowing someone, baring your soul to them, having genuine _feelings_ — stuff like that. His parents were in love, he knows that. His dad and Fiona? Different story.

 

* * *

 

 **Nomad609** : _what are you thinking of, right this minute?_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _how many tables i’m gonna have to clean when i get to work_  
**Nomad609** : _so you work at a restaurant huh? i’m so much closer to discovering your real identity!!!!!_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _ha you wish_  
**Nomad609** : _i actually do. when can we meet for real? i’m dying to know who u are  
_ **PrincetonBoy818** : _soon!_

 

* * *

 

Mitch is never late for work. He goes to bed early so he can wake up and do his 5-8 shift at the diner. He goes to school all day. He’s never participated in any extracurriculars, because he goes back to the diner from 4-7, grabs a bite to eat on his way out, bikes home, and does his homework for two and a half hours before going to bed and repeating it all over again the next day. This has been his life since he turned thirteen. Fiona used to think it was adorable, to have this pimply squeaky kid taking everyone’s orders. She thought it would endear people to the diner, that it would give it more of a family vibe. In hindsight, it was a clever idea, since nothing about Fiona herself has ever given off any vibe that’s remotely familial. Mitch only wishes he’d known more about the California child labour laws at the time, because there is no way what she made him do was legal. 

The point is, Mitch is dedicated. His time spent working day and night for the family diner — his _dad’s_ diner — has built him all the character he needs for his Princeton essay. It keeps him going on days when working at the diner feels pathetic and humiliating. In other words, he keeps Princeton in his mind’s eye whenever he’s forced to wait on his peers.

The diner’s usually pretty packed with students after school, students whose life situations don’t force them into part-time, minimum wage work, and who can loiter and eat fries at their leisure. Today’s no exception, and Mitch gets in for his afternoon shift in time to take the load off Syd, who’s struggling to keep afloat in the sea of high schoolers.

“What can I do?” Mitch asks, tying his obnoxious pink apron around his waist.

“Table five,” Syd says. “Careful, they look like they bite.”

Mitch skates out of the kitchen and into the dining room. He cranes his neck around the counter to see who’s at table five, and sighs when he sees. Bona fide popular kids. Rich ones, too. The kind who all got cars for their sixteenth birthday and have bottomless college funds. Football players and cheerleaders; the oldest combination in the book. Mitch grabs his pad and pen and reluctantly skates over to them.

_Princeton, just remember Princeton_ , he tells himself, and plasters on his service smile. “What can I get you guys?”

Shelby Cummings, blonde, stunning, and head cheerleader to boot, sharply looks up from the menu. “What can I get that has no carbs, no fat, and is gluten-free?”

Shelby’s not a total monster, but she’s semi-Insta famous and has a detox tea discount code and thinks she’s the hottest shit to walk through North Valley because of it.

Mitch rolls his eyes. “Water,” he answers, and receives a scathing look from about ninety percent of the table.

His dry response only elicits a single laugh, and it’s from Auston Matthews, captain of the football team. Mitch appreciates it, even though it’s about the most they’ve ever interacted in their four years at the same high school. Shelby swats at Auston. 

“Was that supposed to be funny?” She asks.

Mitch can’t remember if they broke up, or if they’re still together, or if they broke up but they’re still hooking up. He honestly can’t imagine why they’d be hanging out if it wasn’t the first or last option, but then again, he has an absolute negative investment in either of their lives. Mitch has never considered himself a particularly misfit kid. He’s not some, like, vessel for teenage angst or anything. He’s got two incredible best friends, and some pretty regular concerns, all things considered: saving money for college, getting into the college of his dreams, balancing school with working at the diner — that kind of stuff. Movies blow all that shit about “popular kids” so out of proportion, sometimes. Mitch tends to avoid these kids, though, if he can help it. They’re just completely different, and the school is huge, so it’s not like Mitch needs them to be his friends or acknowledge him in any way. He’s way too busy prepping for Princeton. It’s the way the wind blows — they’re pacing down river, and Mitch is swimming against the current. He’s not special for it — that’s just his life.

Willy Nylander, another conventionally attractive, sports-oriented guy at the table, orders curly fries. Shelby, un-ironically, asks for an iced tea. Mitch nods and starts to skate away.

“Thanks, diner boy,” Shelby calls.

_Princeton_ , Mitch thinks.

 

* * *

 

 **PrincetonBoy818** : _You ever feel like you just don’t fit in? Like everyone in the world is going left, and you’re going right?_  
**Nomad609** : _Absolutely. I can be surrounded by a sea of people and still feel alone.  
_ **Nomad609** : _And then I think of you…_

 

* * *

 

_Sometimes I think you’re the only person who really understands me_ , Nomad texts, later that night. Mitch smiles at his phone, a little dazed. Two seconds later, his phone buzzes again with, _Haha_.

Mitch is in the middle of a history assignment when he hears a knock at his window. A few times a week, Dylan, or Connor, or both, will sneak up into Mitch’s room via the oak tree positioned just outside his window. Fiona doesn’t really let him have visitors, so the three of them developed this system. So far, they’ve never been caught, but Mitch’s blood pressure is always steadily on the rise until they’re out the window and have safely cleared the vicinity.

“If Fiona catches you, we’re both dead,” Mitch hisses. He says it every time, just as a warning about the stakes. He wouldn’t put it past Fiona to call the cops and report Dylan for breaking and entering.

Dylan, predictably, ignores him. In all the years they’ve known each other, and all the years Mitch has been under Fiona’s sole custody, Dylan’s never much cared about pleasing her. He’s good in that he gets that Mitch can’t, like, entirely cross her, since she controls his livelihood and his potential college fund, so he’ll never do anything to explicitly endanger them. But he also has never hidden his feelings about her, which, on the whole, are negative.

“I thought Fiona was getting collagen today,” Dylan says, as he jumps through Mitch’s open bedroom window, landing squarely on the carpet.

“You could say that about any day of the week and it would have an eighty percent chance of being true.”

“My point exactly.”

Dylan settles himself against the wall under the window. Mitch’s bed mostly blocks him from view, if anyone were to open the door unexpectedly. That doesn’t happen often because Mitch’s stepfamily could genuinely take him or leave him with no hangups, but it could fathomably happen, because Mitch’s stepfamily is also the _worst_ and doesn’t respect him or his privacy.

“Davo didn’t wanna join you?” Mitch asks, because Dylan and Connor are a package deal.

“ _Davo_ is trying out for the lacrosse team,” Dylan answers. Mitch hears the spite in his voice, and it’s unusual, but then again — Dylan and Connor are a package deal. If Connor’s at lacrosse and Dylan’s here, Dylan probably feels some type of way about it.

They study in silence for a while, occasionally asking the other to spot them an answer. Eventually, Mitch’s mind starts to wander. He keeps his phone face-down and on Do Not Disturb when doing school work, because Princeton is his only way out of this town and the clutches of his literal evil stepmom, but. Over the past month or so, he’s really enjoyed having someone to talk to. Someone who understands him, understands the desire to land himself a one-way ticket to the East Coast and all the work it’ll take to get him one. Someone who isn’t as blunt as Dylan or as soft as Connor, someone who makes Mitch feel things he’s never felt before. So Mitch flips over his phone and checks his notifications.

Dylan’s thankfully focused on _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ to notice Mitch’s sudden distraction. He carefully opens the messaging app and reads all of Nomad’s messages.

**Nomad609** : _i really hate this place sometimes_  
**Nomad609** : _the pressure to be a certain way, to look a certain way, to fit the mold  
_ **Nomad609** : _my dad wants me to go to USC and i haven’t told him abt princeton yet_

Mitch takes a deep breath before texting his response.

**PrincetonBoy818** : _don’t worry, i haven’t told my fam about it yet either_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _i don’t think they’d understand. they want me to stay here & work for the business  
_ **PrincetonBoy818** : _guess this is something we have 2 do on our own, but at least we can do it together_

Mitch presses send before even thinking about the implications of _at least we can do it together_. First of all, they’ve never met, and only know each other because of a random messaging app. Second, they’ve never even discussed doing anything _together_. They share Princeton as a goal, _duh_ , but besides that, what else is there? Maybe they get along well over text, but Mitch’s face burns thinking about how neither of them have even hinted at visiting together or going through the admissions process together, or even meeting in person. He flops back dramatically on his bed.

Dylan looks up. He eyes Mitch’s phone suspiciously. “Are you texting your secret boyfriend again?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even know who he is.”

Dylan rolls his eyes. Instinctively, Mitch checks his notifications again, to avoid Dylan’s line of questioning. Every cell in his body is filled with dread when he sees that Nomad’s answered. He’s torn between wanting to check it and get the awkward rejection over with, and just chucking his whole phone out the window. Realistically, though, he can’t do the latter, since he’s the one who’ll have to pay to replace it, and right now, he’s gotta save all his money for Princeton.

He swipes on the notification and opens the conversation.

**Nomad609** : _yeah, we’ll do it together_  
**Nomad609** : _this is lame but i’m glad i met u_  
**Nomad609** : _or, i guess we’ve never actually met IRL_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _do you think we’ve ever met before_?  
**Nomad609** : _well there are 3500 people at our school…_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _not the best odds i guess  
_ **Nomad609** : _we should meet though. homecoming dance._

Mitch must not say anything for a long time, because the next thing he registers is Dylan waving his hand in front of his face, like he’s trying to break Mitch out of a trance.

“Earth to Mitchy,” Dylan says.

Mitch blinks. “He wants to meet.”

Dylan grins. “Well, fancy that!”

Mitch scratches the back of his head. “We can’t, right? It’s not a good idea,” he says, while typing out _idk_ and sending it.

“I mean, you’re basically in love already. There’s no harm in, like, literally meeting.”

“I guess…”

“You don’t have a whole lot to lose, my dude,” Dylan says. “But wait, what if he’s ugly?” He asks, because he’s the literal worst.

“You’re such a dick. It doesn’t matter what he _looks like._ Come on.”

“I’m just _saying_. What if he’s some kind of hermit weirdo? My best friend can’t end up with some hermit weirdo.”

“Stromer, _I’m_ a hermit weirdo. Nobody knows who I am; all I do is go to school and work at the diner.”

“And hang out with me,” Dylan grins.

“And hang out with you.” Mitch concedes.

 

* * *

 

 

 **PrincetonBoy818** : _ok, maybe i’d be down_  
**Nomad609** : _only maybe? ouch_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ _just keeping the mystery alive  
_ **Nomad609** : _haha_

 

 

* * *

  


Mitch has never considered himself the, like, brooding hero in a teen movie who thinks he’s special just because he doesn’t fit in. He really hates thinking of himself as any kind of holier-than-thou bro just because he wants to go to Princeton. It just so happens that his interests and the interests of his school and, like, the town at large don’t align. Besides, anyone who’s ever met Fiona knows exactly _why_ he wants to relocate across the damn country. 

Anyway, it’s not like he’s _against_ the homecoming dance, in any real, tangible way. High school events have simultaneously gotten progressively less and more enjoyable over the years, depending on Mitch’s work schedule. Dances, when he can go to them, are pretty fun if he just hangs out with Dylan and Connor and leaves by ten. A homecoming dance, on the other hand, Mitch already _knows_ is off-limits, since most of the kids grab food once it’s over and the diner is a popular place. He doesn’t even have to ask to know that he’ll be working that night.

**Nomad609** : _Seriously, whats ur snapchat._

Mitch frowns. It’s not the first time Nomad’s asked to exchange Snapchats, or Twitters, or actual phone numbers, but something about that, about doing away with the anonymity makes Mitch nervous. He’s not _against_ the idea. Chances are, Nomad wouldn’t even know who Mitch is, since Mitch hasn’t made any sort of impact on the student body besides being the occasionally-recognizable kid who works at the diner. And Mitch _actually_ likes Nomad. He likes hearing what he has to say, he likes commiserating about not fitting in, and dreaming about Princeton together. He likes that Nomad will say something really profound and cool and follow it up with a self-deprecating _haha_ , because he’s conscious of how he comes across. He likes that Nomad will send him texts consisting purely of emojis, like hieroglyphics he expects Mitch to decipher. He likes that Nomad knows all the words to _All Star_ and will sometimes throw them into casual conversations like a meme dork.

But, and Mitch has wondered this before, there’s a slight chance Nomad could turn out to be some creep, or worse, someone just catfishing him as some big practical joke. So as long as Mitch remains PrincetonBoy818, and not Mitch Marner, he’s in the clear. His dignity and public image can remain in tact.

 

* * *

 

The night of the homecoming dance arrives, and Mitch is still as torn as he was when Nomad first brought it up.

Well, he’s considerably less torn than he initially was, since — as he predicted — Fiona scheduled him to work all night. Meaning he wouldn’t be able to go, even if he wanted to. He tried to ignore it whenever it came up in conversation, but Nomad wouldn’t let it go. He didn’t want to let Nomad down, but he also didn’t want to, like, lie to him, and ended up leaving it up in the air. He’ll tell Nomad he got food poisoning and had to stay home. No harm, no foul, right?

Apparently, Dylan and Connor disagree, because they pull up to the diner half an hour before the dance is scheduled to start, and park themselves at a booth in Mitch’s section.

“We refuse to leave until you come with us to the dance.”

Mitch shrugs, trying not to reveal how much it’s tugging at him that he can’t go. “Guess you’ll be here all night, then,” he answers, skating an order over to table ten.

“Don’t play coy with us, Marns. We know you want to go as badly as we want you to go,” Dylan scolds. So much for hiding his feelings.

“I’m _working_. And I have nothing to wear, anyway.”

“This could be your _only_ chance to meet Nomad!” Dylan shouts, loud enough for about 80% of the diner tenants to hear. He practically jumps out of his seat, leaping onto the vinyl booth. Connor’s looking at him like he wants to reign him in, but he knows as well as Mitch that trying to reign Dylan in when he’s on a warpath is a lost cause.

“Stromer, I can’t just leave my shift,”

Dylan looks like he wants to shake him. “ _Yes_ , you can. You can and you should. Davo, back me up.”

Connor hesitates, and Mitch honest to god expects the kid to side with him, and with reason, and with worker’s integrity, but he opens his dumb mouth and says, “Dylan’s right. Maybe you should just come with us and see what happens.”

“I can’t believe you guys,” he sighs, shaking his head.

Pat, alerted by Dylan’s outburst, makes his way over to the table. “Everything okay over here?” he asks.

“Mr. Marleau, tell Mitch he _has_ to sneak out and come to the homecoming dance with us.” Dylan pleads.

Pat’s got his best Stern Dad face on, and Mitch knows there’s no way he’ll crack and side with Mitch’s idiot friends. “Okay first, don’t ever call me _Mr. Marleau_ again. Second of all, I’m gonna pretend like you’re not encouraging an employee on my watch to leave his shift. Thirdly, Mitch, you should go.”

Mitch is dumbstruck, and it’s getting harder to ignore the voice in him telling him to go for it, take the damn leap. “Fiona’s gonna kill me if she finds out,”

“Who cares about Fiona? Mitch, this is a unique opportunity, and you have to take it,” Pat says, and the sincerity in his face convinces Mitch on the spot.

“I’ll cover for you.” Syd, who’s been eavesdropping by the jukebox, pipes in immediately, with a certainty that makes Mitch’s heart clench.

“We all will,” Matt agrees loudly, and they’re his favourite, seriously.

Mitch looks around the diner, at all these people who are willing to put themselves on the line, all so that Mitch can meet his secret online boyfriend. They’re the family he’s never really had. The family he hardly believes he deserves. “Okay, but I have to be back here by midnight, because Fiona’s getting back at twelve-thirty. Also, I have nothing to wear.”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re coming with me,” Pat says, grabbing Mitch’s elbow and practically rolling him out of the diner. “Meet us at my place in twenty.”

In what is almost certainly half the usual time it takes to get from the diner to Pat’s place, they pull up in Pat’s driveway, practically leaving tire tracks in their wake. Christina’s already at the door, ushering them in.

“Okay,” she’s saying, as Mitch follows her into the living room, “we’ve got a few options for you. Some of Pat’s old Halloween costumes, some of _my_ old Halloween costumes — if that’s what you’re more into — the kids have some things, but nothing that would fit — ”

Mitch looks back and forth between his options that Christina has laid out on their couch. Fireman is classic. Fairy might draw a little too much attention to him than he’d really like. Hockey player would probably be absurd.

“There is one more thing, but I wanted Pat to be here when I brought it out,” Christina says, before disappearing down the hall into their bedroom. 

She returns with a long black box. Pat’s eyebrows fly up when he sees it.

“You kept that?”

“I wasn’t sure if one of the boys would grow into it some day,” she answers, opening it up to reveal a white tux jacket with a long tail. “We ordered Pat’s wedding tux online, back before it was legit. It came in two sizes too small _and_ the wrong colour, but I figured we could still get some use out of it. Turns out this might be the perfect occasion.”

Mitch gawks. He’s never worn anything like it before. The tux isn’t exactly D&G, but it still looks and feels pretty expensive, and besides, Mitch had been planning on renting one for prom, so he’s in no position to judge. It’s by far his favourite option. Mitch never pegged himself as a white tux kind of guy, but he’s surprisingly drawn to it. He cradles the fabric carefully when trying it on, not wanting to accidentally tear it or stretch it out.

Pat tosses him a comb and some mousse, and Mitch runs them through his hair. It doesn’t take much to tame Mitch’s hair, but when he manages to style it, it completely changes his whole face. Christina comes over and tousles and tucks a few strands of his hair, adjusting it just so.

Christina also happens to have a white sash, which she drapes over one of his shoulders and diagonally across his torso, giving the whole thing a way more princely vibe. Mitch takes one final glance at the options Christina had laid out, and notices a silky-looking mask — the kind that just covers your eyes.

“Here,” Christina says, picking up the mask and adjusting it over his eyes, “so no one will know it’s you, and Fiona will never find out.”

Dylan lets out a wolf-whistle when Mitch climbs into the back seat. Mitch ignores him, because he’s stoked Dylan’s fire enough tonight, and also because Nomad messages him.

**Nomad609** : _omg so ur actually coming???_  
**Nomad609** : _i’ll be waiting at the bottom of the staircase  
_**Nomad609** : _i’m dressed as prince charming btw lol_

Mitch types out a quick response, _me too. sort of. and i’m almost there_

“ _Please_ focus on driving, Stromer. We’ve got a timeline.” Connor groans. Mitch half-expects him to tell Mitch to buckle up.

“Roger that,” Dylan answers, like a dork.

It only takes about fifteen minutes to get from Pat and Christina’s to the venue, because North Valley is a nebulous and everything is within a fifteen minute drive of everything else. The venue itself is some old castle-y-looking Spanish building that people must get married in, or some shit. It’s, objectively, a _lot_ for just a Halloween-themed homecoming dance. The outside is all lit up with tasteful bulb string lights, but inside there’s nothing but strobe lighting and multi-coloured flashing lights and a pounding bass line.

“What are you waiting for?” Connor asks, nudging him towards the staircase.

Mitch can feel people’s eyes on him as he walks through the hall towards the grand staircase. Probably because he looks like some hybrid of a groom and a prince and a masquerade attendee. Probably also because he’s very much wearing a white tuxedo. Most people are dressed either as some meme, pop culture reference, or usual Halloween culprit. Mitch keeps an eye out for another prince waiting at the bottom of the staircase. On his way down, he passes a Mario and Luigi, several angels, Little Bow Peep, and the 1999 LA Lakers, but no sign of a prince.

He finally spots a prince costume, and is overcome with a wave of relief, until he realizes who’s wearing it. 

Auston Matthews, star quarterback of the North Valley High Fighting Frogs. Everyone in this whole town knows who Auston Matthews is, even the few who don’t care much for football. Mitch laughs, mostly at himself, because there is no way in _hell_ Auston Matthews is Nomad609. This kid has everything: his family’s rich, he’s popular, smart enough, is a quarterback in every clichéd sense of it, probably has football scholarships coming out of his _ass_ , and was only up until recently dating the head cheerleader. Or, they’re broken up but still hooking up. Either way, it’s the biggest cliché in the book, the two of them. No way could Auston Matthews share his feelings with Mitch the way Nomad does. The guy’s a walking picture of toxic masculinity, and probably doesn’t understand anything besides football and being a bro. 

Mitch takes a deep breath. Maybe it’s not fair of him to have all these assumptions; everyone’s fighting a battle you know nothing about, and all that. But Auston’s friends, his team, and everyone who worships him and kisses the ground he walks on represent everything Mitch hates about North Valley. That whole bubble town mentality that Mitch despises like a ball and chain. He wonders briefly if there’s another staircase in this place, because the only person he’s spotted dressed as a prince, besides himself, is Auston Matthews, and that seriously can’t be. At that exact moment, his phone buzzes with another message.

**Nomad609** : _are you close by? i’m still at the stairs_.

Mitch’s head shoots up. The area around the staircase is quieting down, most people having gone off to join the different rooms of the party. There’s only one person there who even remotely resembles a prince, who also happens to be checking his phone, and that’s —

It’s —

It’s Auston Matthews.

Mitch doesn’t even get a chance to back out, to run away and crawl into a hole and die for the rest of his life. He barely gets a chance to move before Auston is waving at him. This has to be a practical joke, Mitch thinks, even as he makes his way over to Auston. Someone’s going to come out of the shadows and point a phone in his face for a Snapchat that’ll go viral all over school, and Mitch will be forced into hiding.

“PrincetonBoy?” Auston asks, and it sounds otherworldly and, oddly enough, _earnest_. Mitch experiences profound, out-of-body confusion hearing his stupid username spoken out loud by _Auston Matthews_.

Mitch nods. “I’m guessing you’re Nomad, then?”

Auston grins. “You disappointed?”

Auston Matthews, in true clichéd quarterback fashion, is also devastatingly hot. He’s got that crooked smile and that chin dimple and that perfectly floppy hair. He’s built like a fridge, and maybe at one point he’d have been better off playing a more defensive position, but he’s a quarterback now, and that’s not changing any time soon. Not when the Fighting Frogs’ win streak would be nonexistent without him.

He’s the kind of guy it can be really, _really_ dangerous to have a crush on, except for the fact that Auston is openly bisexual. People used to give him tons of shit for it; nobody understood why he’d come out when he was dating arguably the hottest girl in school. But they all shut their mouths pretty soon when they realized he was the only reason the football team was even remotely competitive. They did a whole news feature on him. Fiona used to walk around the house saying he’s so _brave_ , really drawing out the _a_ syllable. And he is brave, to be sure. It fucking rules, but. Mitch has absolutely never orbited anywhere _near_ Auston Matthews. He might be in shock.

“Uh,” Mitch answers, “no, not at all. Just. Definitely not who I was expecting.”

“Well, _you’re_ not who I was expecting, either.”

Mitch pauses. “You _know_ I’m a dude, right? Like, it’s in the name. You weren’t expecting a girl, were you?”

“No, not expecting a girl,” Auston laughs. He motions to Mitch’s mask.

“Oh yeah. Lame, right?” Mitch jokes, raising his voice to be heard over the heavy bass running through the hall.

“No, I like it,” Auston answers, “more of a challenge.”

“Oh, so I’m a _challenge_?”

“No,” Auston sputters, “no, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Mitch laughs, but his guard’s still up. “I’m kidding, don’t worry. But, listen, I have to be honest. You’re _really_ not who I was expecting Nomad to be. How do I know it’s really you?"

Auston shrugs and is quiet for a moment. They start walking towards the back door. Outside is a garden, full of peonies and lilies and other romantic-looking flowers. The fences are tastefully draped with silky bows, and hundreds of fairy lights sparkle overhead. The path through the garden is lined with legitimate _candles_ , too, and not just the battery-operated ones. It’s like something out of a wedding magazine, or Davo’s secret Pinterest board, and it’s so absurdly beautiful that Mitch wonders, not for the first time, who the homecoming committee had to blow for their budget.

“Okay, how ’bout this — one time, I asked if you’ve ever felt alone in a room full of people, and you made some joke about how cliché that is. And at first, I thought _this is it_ , you’re just like every other jerk in this town. But then you said you had, and that it’s the worst, but you’re always looking towards the future, because it’s a comfort to you. Something like that. It really stuck with me.”

Mitch is floored. He did say that. He remembers, because he tied his stomach up in knots worrying he’d said the wrong thing, that they didn’t know each other like that yet. That conversation happened a few weeks ago; he can’t believe Auston remembers it.

“Alright, Nomad, you’ve proven yourself.” Mitch says. It’s majorly lame, and sounded way cooler in his head.

“Well, now this isn’t fair,” Auston answers, “you know an awful lot about me, and I don’t even know who you are.”

Mitch snorts. “Let’s put it this way — you wouldn’t know who I am even if I took this mask off.”

“That’s not necessarily true,”

“No offence, because I’m, like, actually really stoked we were able to meet tonight, but you’re _Auston Matthews_. I’m not trying to sell myself short, but we exist on very different planes in this school.”

Auston scoffs. “Social status is bullshit, though. Everyone here, they think they know me. Or worse, they think they own a piece of me, like I somehow belong to them, just because I can throw a football. They make all these assumptions about me, people I’ve never spoke to before, just based on me being a quarterback.”

Now that Auston says this, Mitch feels pieces of the puzzle loosely assemble in his mind. Stuff that Nomad has told him suddenly makes way more sense — all the stuff about expectations and pressure from his dad and not feeling like he fits in even though he looks like he does. Mitch had always assumed that was, like, regular teenager stuff, and of course, to a degree, it is. But he can’t imagine how amplified those feelings must be as Auston Matthews, local boy hero.

Mitch doesn’t understand that, granted. Nobody assumes they know Mitch, without having spoken to or met him. Nobody really knows Mitch — period. Besides Dylan and Connor, and Patty, and Matt and Syd, not a whole lot of people have ever taken interest in Mitch. And he’s been fine with that. He’s survived. But then there’s Auston. Nomad609, who infiltrated his life, past every self-imposed border, who made Mitch do stupid things like smile out of the blue and blush at nothing.

“Let’s not worry about that,” Mitch says, suddenly feeling bold, “we’re meeting for the first time, right? Let’s, uh, focus on that.”

Auston visibly relaxes. “Okay, then. So how will I find out who you really are?”

“Twenty questions?” Mitch suggests weakly. Strangely, it makes Auston really excited. Like he’s never played twenty questions before and he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to ask him. Mitch says as much out loud, and it makes Auston laugh, unexpected and gleaming gold, like his entire freaking existence.

The idea of Nomad609 being some kind of _dream boat_ like Auston Matthews never even crossed Mitch’s mind. He was much more prepared to meet someone kind of like himself. Actually, he’d been banking on it. He wanted to know who in the school he’d never noticed before would suddenly reveal themselves from the woodwork as Mitch’s anonymous admirer. He had this whole vision of them as two kind of outcast out kids taking solace in each other. This guy would be quiet, with a boisterous laugh, and he’d sit at the counter in the diner while waiting for Mitch’s shift to end. As it got closer to quitting time, Syd would throw straw wrappers at them and pretend to be grossed out by how quietly in love they were. They’d go to prom, for the sake of it, but they’d sneak out early to make out and drink in the park. They’d both attend Princeton, but they wouldn’t share a dorm, because that’s a bit crazy, right? But still, they’d amass a group of really cool, eclectic friends, and go to parties where people drink wine, and they’d be the crazy romantic stable couple who observed as their group of friends all fell in love.

Mitch has a lot of time to think about these things, okay? His job at the diner isn’t _that_ demanding.

It never occurred to him that Nomad would turn out to be the most notorious, well-known guy at North Valley High. 

“Okay, do you like football?” Auston asks.

Mitch snaps back to reality, and smiles sheepishly up at Auston. “Would you hate me if I said so-so?”

Auston laughs. “I’m pretty so-so about football too, actually.” he confesses.

“Yeah, huh?” Mitch nods, “your dad — ”

“Oh, _god_. I haven’t even told him about Princeton. He thinks I’m actually going to accept a football scholarship and play college ball like he did.”

Mitch rubs his shoulder. It feels like the right thing to do, and Auston visibly relaxes at the contact. “Hey, I’m sorry, dude. That can’t be easy.”

Auston bursts out laughing. “God, I like you so much. I’m, like, getting all worked up about my dad and you’re calling me dude. You’re — ” Auston scrubs at his face, “you’re just super cool, that’s all.”

It’s Mitch’s turn to laugh then because, _seriously_? And then, all of a sudden, there’s not a force on God’s green earth that could wipe the smile from Mitch’s face. This is really happening. Boy of his dreams, all that.

After taking a lap around the garden, they find a secluded basketball court tucked away behind the elegantly-maintained shrubbery.

Auston looks at Mitch, and offers him his hand. “Do you play basketball?” he asks.

“You sure you want to use your twelfth question on that, bud?” Mitch replies, but he takes Auston’s hand anyway. “I don’t play, like, for the school or anything. But if you count shooting hoops on my driveway, then sure, I play.”

“Fair enough,” Auston answers.

Mitch has — almost _negative_ knowledge on all sports — but he can at least do a mean layup. His dad taught him.

“You really don’t care who I am, do you? I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I’m kind of a big deal,” Auston says, and Mitch knows it’s all fake-cocky, but he can’t help but roll his eyes in response.

“Modest. I like it.”

Auston grins at him, flashing his teeth.

“What made you want to come here tonight?”

Mitch shrugs. He dribbles the ball and thinks back to freaking out in his room with Dylan. “I… just wanted to meet you.”

“Well, I was _terrified_ to meet you.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Mitch demands.

“You’re so smart? And, like, really funny. And you — you understand me in a way I don’t think _anyone_ has. I was so scared that you, like, wouldn’t be real. Or that you’d turn out to be scarier in real life.”

“And now?” 

“Still a little terrified. But definitely in a good way.”

Mitch laughs. “I honestly _can’t_ believe that, man. The idea of anyone being scared of me is just _beyond_.”

“Dude, no, I was so nervous I was like practicing in the mirror and shit. Willy didn’t think it was a big deal ’cause it’s just like meeting a Tinder date or whatever, but — I mean, this is different, right?”

Mitch chews on his bottom lip to avoid smiling too frantically. “Right,” he answers, nodding solemnly, “totally different. Way more monumental.”

“Sorry,” Auston says, all bashful, “I think that’s the dorkiest thing I’ve ever said.”

“It’s not. I’ve got receipts.”

Auston lets out a laugh and shoves him gently, his paw of a hand grazing Mitch’s shoulder. “It’s just who I _am_. I can’t help it sometimes.”

“Auston Matthews is kind of a dork,” Mitch observes, “noted.”

It’s starting to get cold; the night air is especially chilly this time of year, and Mitch suspects that Auston’s the kind of guy who’d drape his jacket over Mitch’s shoulders, if Mitch mentioned being cold. He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s not sure he wants to find out, besides. He doesn’t know that his heart could withstand that right now.

“I’m not sure if I should be trying to impress you right now, or if I should just act the way I do — the way it is when — ” Auston scratches the back of his neck, “do you know what I’m trying to say?”

Mitch laughs. The crazy thing is, he kind of does. “Yeah. We know each other. Kind of freakishly well. This should be a breeze, and here I am, wearing a fucking mask.”

“Yeah, about that — ”

There’s this weird, frantic moment where their gazes lock, and Mitch swears Auston clocks him, that he recognizes something in Mitch’s eyes that gives away his identity. Mitch doesn’t want to move, he can barely move, and the air around them is charged with this crazy electricity, and suddenly, Auston is thumbing at Mitch’s chin, trying to guide him in for a kiss. Mitch panics. Auston can’t kiss him now. He feels wrong, doing it when Auston is so exposed and he’s so hidden, even though he’s the one insisting on concealing his identity. It takes all of Mitch’s willpower to duck away, to use the moment of surprise to grab the ball from under Auston’s arm and dribble it to the other end of the court.

“That’s _definitely_ cheating,” Auston calls, recovering immediately. Mitch’s tactics seem to give Auston the courage to get more physical with the game, hovering up in Mitch’s space and really emphasizing their size difference as he tries to win the ball back from Mitch’s possession. 

“I’m not a cheater. My dad raised me right.” Mitch says, slightly out of breath as he sets up for another layup. This time, the ball nets cleanly. Mitch whoops.

Auston grins, and gets right up in Mitch’s space — chests pressing together and everything. He leans down, forehead almost touching Mitch’s own and okay, _now_ Mitch is fucking winded. _Now_ he might actually kiss this guy; this mysterious, incredible, completely random guy he’s been speaking to nonstop for the past two months, this guy he feels like he knows and understands on some fundamental level. This guy, who is somehow also Auston Matthews, a person Mitch has never given much thought to, a person the whole town worships. 

The thing is — Auston’s standing in front of him, and Mitch knows him and he knows Mitch. It’s all a little crazy. Mitch doesn’t even care that it’s Auston Matthews. All he cares about his the guy who shared his wildest dreams with Mitch, and who was brazen and kind and absurd and wonderful and patient and understanding enough to listen to Mitch’s own.

The basketball has officially been abandoned, left to roll down to the far side of the court. The night air is so quiet, so still, even the distant sound of bass coming from the castle isn’t enough to break the moment.

“Who are you, PrincetonBoy?” Slowly, Auston reaches up, and Mitch thinks he might try pulling the same chin move as before, but Auston is touching the mask, and Mitch realizes he’s about to take it off. Mitch also realizes that, for the first time tonight, he’s not scared of Auston seeing who he really is and —

The familiar, painful, agonizing sound of the _Sencha_ ringtone blares from his phone, completely breaking the moment. Mitch remembers, in a fit of panic, that the alarm means it’s _midnight_ , and midnight means he’s gotta gun it to the parking lot so that Dylan and Connor can drive him back to the diner.

“I’m _so_ sorry, I have to go — ” Mitch says, as he rushes towards the path leading to the parking lot.

“ _Go_? Where are you going?” Auston calls. Mitch looks over his shoulder to cast one final apologetic look at Auston before completely bolting.

He’s running so fast that he hardly notices when his phone falls out of his pocket on the stone path behind him.

Dylan and Connor are already in Dylan’s car by the time Mitch makes it to the parking lot. They look like Batman and Robin, although Mitch is hesitant to decide who’s who in that scenario.

“This was a huge mistake,” Mitch says, buckling himself into the backseat.

“Why? Was he weird?”

“He was _Auston Matthews_.”

Dylan whips his head around to look at Mitch incredulously. “ _What_?”

“Eyes on the road, Stromer,” Connor says plaintively.

“Eyes on your _mom_ ,” Dylan retorts. Sometimes, Mitch really can’t believe they’re friends. Any of them.

Mitch digs his hand into his pocket to grab his phone, but it’s empty. He feels around the other pocket, and the breast pocket of his jacket and — nothing. He throws his head back against the headrest with a thump.

“I think I dropped my phone.”

“Mitchy, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re unbelievable.”

 

* * *

 

 **Nomad609** : _I have ur phone_  
**Nomad609** : _You should come get it back. No mask this time  
_ **Nomad609** : _Seriously, I miss talking to u. Last night was amazing_

_  
_

* * *

 

It wasn’t enough time. That’s what Mitch keeps coming back to — they didn’t have enough time together, in the garden. Sure, they kind of almost kissed. Kind of. But what they have when they’re Nomad and PrincetonBoy feels huge and expansive and monumental compared to those few short hours at the homecoming dance. It was barely enough time to connect the username to Auston Matthews. And yet, everything about that fragment of time felt so _right_ , so precious, like gears clicking into place and stars aligning and heavens singing.

Mitch has no idea how he’s going face Auston in third period English on Monday.

They almost _kissed_. What the _fuck_.

Now, Mitch has to come to terms with the fact that he’s got a massive, all-consuming crush on Auston Matthews. Everyone in North Valley has a massive, all-consuming crush on Auston Matthews — this. This is just great.

“Come on, Mitch, not everyone knows him like you do.” Connor says. Mitch, despite himself, is endeared by how earnest he sounds.

“You’re getting a free milkshake for that,” Mitch tells him, and Dylan looks affronted

“Yeah, well I second what Davo says. I want a free milkshake, too,”

“Pouting’s really unattractive,” Mitch says, in his best Fiona voice. It makes the boys snicker. “I only get one free thing a day. You guys’ll just have to share.” 

He walks down to the straw dispenser and pumps out two straws, then lays them in front of Dylan and Connor. They have the nerve to look embarrassed.

“Anyway,” Connor says, clearing his throat, “he tells you stuff he doesn’t tell anyone else. Not even his best friend. You clearly mean a lot to him.”

“Sure, but what am I supposed to do? Just walk up to him and be like, hey Auston, funny story, I’m actually PrincetonBoy, sorry for not introducing myself properly before?”

Dylan and Connor look at each other and start nodding.

“Well, yeah — ”

“Yep,” they say, in sync.

“And then he’ll say, _who are you exactly_?”

Dylan reaches over the counter to smack Mitch upside the head. It hurts more emotionally than physically. “You’ll say, d _ummy, I’m the guy you almost kissed at homecoming, the one you’ve been majorly flirting with like an idiot for the past two months_ , et cetera et cetera. Who cares if he doesn’t know who you, Mitch Marner, are right away? He knows PrincetonBoy. He knows your freaking soul, man.”

Mitch blinks. He thinks there may be a tear caught in his eyelash, He has no clue how it got there.

“Damn.” Connor says.

Mitch nods solemnly, in agreement.

 

* * *

 

On Monday morning, William Nylander and Brock Boeser are handing out multicoloured flyers to anyone that tries to walk past them. Mitch focuses on locking up his bike, until a looming shadow blocks his sunlight. He turns his head, and William Nylander is bearing over him, looking down at him like some benevolent blond god.

“Take a flyer, text the number,” he says, pushing a bright green flyer into Mitch’s chest before moving on. As far as slogans go, that one’s pretty lazy.

Mitch looks down at the flyer, and immediately feels all the blood drain out of his face. A rough sketch of a short-haired boy wearing a mask is printed in the middle. Around the drawing, in bold font, is _Have you seen this boy? Auston Matthews’ Homecoming Cinderella_ followed by a phone number. Mitch appreciates the restraint Auston, or whoever made the poster, demonstrated in not calling him Cinder _fella_ , but it’s basically moot, anyway. Mitch practically bolts to Dylan’s locker, where Dylan and Connor appear to be cramming for their physics test. He shoves the flyer into their collective chests, much in the way Willy did to him.

“Have you seen this?” Mitch hisses.

Dylan looks up at him, scrutinizing, before smoothing his features. “Dude, I keep forgetting you don’t have a phone,” he says, which answers zero percent of Mitch’s question.

Connor motions to the hallway. Mitch notices then that the _Cinderella_ flyers are stuck on every single locker lining the hall.

“I can’t believe this,” he groans.

“I can’t believe you’re _Auston Matthews’ Cinderella_ ,” Connor goads. “Are you gonna come forward and mend his broken heart?”

Mitch freezes. How’s he supposed to do _that_? If Mitch, like, thinks about it too hard, his palms get all clammy and his throat closes up and the room starts to spin a little. He wonders what it means that his reaction to Auston Matthews being Nomad609 is akin to allergic reaction. 

In third period English, Mitch sits in his usual seat by the windows. Every so often, he casts a glance over his shoulder, to look at Auston from across the room. It feels terribly dramatic and clandestine, but he can’t help himself from looking. In true Auston Matthews fashion, he’s wearing a Property of North Valley Fighting Frogs t-shirt that looks like it’s intentionally a size too small. Mitch searches for clues to connect Auston to Nomad. He wishes he had his phone so he could message Auston, just to see his reaction. But Auston, Mitch notices, resolutely stays off his phone the entire period. He seems enthralled by Mr. Babcock’s lecture on Thomas Hardy ( _“Not to be confused with Tom Hardy. The first person to make a Bane reference is getting kicked out.”_ ) and, yeah, Victorian realism is fine and all, but Auston’s paying, like, an absurd amount of attention. Then it clicks in Mitch’s head that Nomad wants to study English lit. Duh.

It’s dumb to be endeared by someone who’s interested in school, right? To think it’s sweet that a person is actually paying attention and cares about the subject matter? Auston’s not special, or all that different for doing it, except that Mitch knows everything beneath the surface. He knows almost everything there is to know about Nomad — and by extension, Auston — and that kind of connection makes Mitch feel like his intestines are twisted up in knots. It’s not the worst feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

_Have you seen this boy? Auston Matthews’ Homecoming Cinderella_. 

Mitch rolls his eyes and tears the poster off his locker. He balls it up, and chucks it into the recycling bin before putting his books in his locker, like that’s proving some kind of point. He can have a magical, anonymous evening with Auston Matthews and not care that Auston is tearing up the entire school trying to find him. He can still be annoyed by his friends’ poster’s dumb _take a flyer, text the number_ slogan.

“I don’t get why you can’t just go up to him and tell him who you are?” Connor says, at lunch.

Mitch shrugs as he peels open a ketchup packet and squeezes it over his burger. “Do you _see_ the line of people who have suddenly come out of the woodworks, just because _bisexual athlete of the year_ Auston Matthews is now looking for a dude? Can you believe this is how everyone sees him? I don’t know what they’re expecting, but it’s a total circus.”

“Yeah, but _you’re_ the one he’s looking for. Who cares what other people are doing?” Dylan points out. He then undercuts any wisdom with a stupidly big bite of his burrito, with half the filling spilling out the other end.

Connor ignores the waterfall of beans and ground beef and nods. “You said you guys really connected. And you _obviously_ did, ’cause you’ve been talking nonstop for, like, _months_ ,” he says, and he’s clearly not letting this go easy. “Isn’t it hypocritical to judge _him_ for being this, like, really popular football player?”

“First of all,” Mitch answers, holding up a finger, “I’m not _judging_ him. I just don’t know if I want to get involved right now, since the whole school is part of his manhunt.”

“Is that all you got?” Dylan asks. He and Connor are wearing matching unimpressed expressions. 

Mitch sighs and takes a bite of his burger. “I don’t know, guys.”

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Mitch really wishes he were less of a coward, sometimes.

He wishes he could just, like, _defy_ his high school social strata. That he could, somehow, embody exactly the kind of nobody kid in high school who stands up for what’s right, who really doesn’t care what others think. The kind of kid who can just _come forward_ as the dude Auston Matthews is looking for and have that be enough. Because, sure, he’s proud of who he is, and he’s proud that he drove Auston crazy enough to embark on this whole quest for him through the entire student body, and _sure_ , he really likes Nomad — _Auston_ — a lot, but. The risk of coming forward and being _rejected_? Mitch can’t go through that. Not now, at least. Maybe in the future, when everything matters less. Or when football season is over.

 

* * *

 

 **PrincetonBoy818** : _Miss me? I just realized I can text u from my computer_  
**Nomad609** : _Where have you been??_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _Sorry, lost my phone remember? ;)_  
**Nomad609** : _You think you’re ever gonna want it back?_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _Well considering my stepmom probably won’t replace it & phones are bananas expensive, probably  
_ **Nomad609** : _Why don’t you just tell me who you are??_

 

Mitch stares at the screen. Great question, Auston. Great question.

 

* * *

 

What’s been most embarrassing about the whole _Cinderella_ debacle is that Chucky and Brady have really latched on to the whole search as a means of getting in with the popular crowd. They’ve always been oddly obsessed with being _cool_ , which Mitch supposes is a product of being raised by Fiona, and have been looking for a way in since freshman year. Mitch had kind of expected them to sign up for flyer duty, but they’ve surprisingly taken Shelby’s side in the matter, offering their shoulders for her to cry on. Mitch was even more surprised to find that she accepted.

“They wait on her hand and foot. I think they’re hoping she tags them in a ’gram or two.” Mitch says.

“Jesus, that’s pathetic,” Dylan scoffs.

“I don’t get how Shelby thinks there even is a side for her to be on,” Connor says, “it’s Auston’s business.”

“Come on, Davo, everyone knows she thinks she’s got some, like, eternal claim on him.”

“It’s twisted,” Mitch answers, “but it doesn’t really warm me up to the idea of coming forward. Especially if the evil step-bros are gonna want my head on a platter because of it.”

“Good self-preservation instinct, but I still think you should — ”

“Nine o’clock,” Dylan says, interrupting Connor to elbow Mitch violently. 

Mitch has to crane his head in a few directions, because it’s like eight thirty in the morning and he hates when Dylan tells him to look at things as if they were time on a clock. Who even reads analog clocks anymore, anyway?

When Mitch locates his and Dylan’s nine o’clock, everything suddenly feels very much like they’ve been sucked into some kind of vortex where everything is slow motion. At their nine o’clock, Auston Matthews is parking his midnight blue fucking convertible from the sixties that he refurbished with his dad - because he’s every cool dude cliché as well, apparently. Regardless, his hair is a little windswept and he’s wearing a grey t-shirt that stretches criminally over his pecs and Mitch actively has to hold back a deep sigh. He may be pathetic and cowardly but he’s not blind.

Dylan turns to Connor, and they simultaneously roll their eyes. Them reading each other’s minds and doing all that non-verbal communication was already hard, but now that they’re very obviously non-verbally communicating about how pathetic Mitch is, it’s so much worse.

“This is just... not fair,” Mitch says, and he sounds dreadfully breathy, like he’s on some kind of dream-like plane of existence where everything is soft and golden and beautiful.

Auston just keeps walking towards them, deep in conversation with Willy Nylander. Every so often, he’ll turn to Willy and expose his entire profile to Mitch. Mitch is only human, he can only dance around the deep feelings he has for Auston’s jawline for so long. There’s a moment, a perfect, precious moment, when Auston turns his head back around to face forward, face the school, face Mitch, and —

Mitch swears it’s like a millisecond of eye contact but it’s charged as _hell_ and Mitch feels his body walk towards Auston on autopilot, commanded by some primal-deep instinct. All of a sudden, Mitch couldn’t give a damn about Shelby, or Chucky, or Brady, or anyone for that matter. All he cares about is Auston.

“Mitch, what are you — “

_This is it_ , he thinks, _I’m gonna tell him_.

“Mitch wait — “

Just before he can fully approach Auston, Mitch steps onto his shoelace, tripping and skidding onto the pavement and completely wiping out in front of at least a fifth of the student body. Auston turns to look at him, and suddenly everything’s jolted back to its regular pace. No more slow motion.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Auston asks, because he’s Nomad-goddamn-609, and he cares about his fellow man. He holds out a hand but Mitch is already hoisting himself back up to standing.

“All good. Thanks.”

The moment’s gone, over before it even began, and Mitch is starting to feel like this is just his luck, these days.

 

* * *

 

 

On Saturday, Fiona instructs Mitch to get her Jag washed.

“I mean, we’re in the middle of a drought? How badly do you need to wash your car?” Mitch asked, but was met with a symphony of opposition and comebacks about droughts only being for poor people. _JLo’s lawn is green, Mitch._

Mitch isn’t stupid. Everyone knows the Matthews own the best car wash in North Valley, which sounds less like an achievement than an inevitability — but hey, that’s North Valley. Mitch also happens to know that Auston works there occasionally. So it’s not like he’s hoping to run into Auston on this fine, sunny Saturday morning — but, just in case, he’s wearing his nice jorts and a blue flannel that really brings out his eyes. He thinks Auston might recognize his eyes. If there were a feature for Auston to remember about him, it would probably be his eyes, right? Or his kind of honky voice, maybe. But preferably the eyes.

Auston, it turns out, _is_ working today. Mitch’s nice jorts have never led him astray. He approaches Fiona’s jag and takes a moment to examine it.

Auston taps his pen against his clipboard. “Let’s see,” he says, “you need a wax —”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Auston laughs. “I mean the car.”

“Oh — yeah. Of course. I know car stuff,” Mitch says, and that sounds like the thing someone who knows zero car stuff would say. He cringes internally, but Auston looks unfazed by Mitch’s blundering. People must do that a lot around him, Mitch figures.

The strange trance-like self-assurance of the other day has completely vanished, along with the desire to expose himself so immediately. So his current game plan is to just do subtle things to trigger Auston’s memory, and hope that he pieces things together himself. He wonders how on earth he could possibly conjure the magical confidence of Homecoming Dance Mitch.

“It’ll be ready in a half hour, but you can hang around here, if you’d like. I can get you a drink, too, if you wanna wait around. Water?”

“Where are you guys getting all this water, anyway?”

Auston grins and tosses Mitch a plastic bottle. “Nestle,” he answers.

Mitch nods and takes a seat on the bench at the other end of the lot. It’s times like these he feels like an idiot for dropping his phone, because he’s got nothing to do, besides read the label on his water bottle and watch Auston Matthews wash his stepmom’s car like this is some kind of cheesy music video. As far as options go, Mitch’s really suck. He’s half-expecting Auston to wring the wet sponge over his head and shake out his hair wildly. It’s not like the huge practical joke that is his life could get any worse.

After exactly thirty minutes, Auston’s finished with Fiona’s car, and he jogs over to the bench where Mitch is sitting to alert him. And then he pauses mid-sentence to ask, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Mitch, suddenly frozen, weakly answers, “Um…I go to North Valley?”

Auston scratches his head, looking slightly confused. It makes him look like a cartoon, and Mitch feels his heart blooming with a thousand hues of technicolour under the singular weight of his attention. “No, I think it’s from something else. Never mind,” he says, and Mitch tries not to look too disappointed by the lack of recognition.

 

* * *

 

As luck would have it, Auston wanders into the diner that afternoon. It’s the point in the afternoon between the lunchtime crowd and the early evening crowd when Mitch would be tempted to throw straw wrappers at Matt or play the worst of the jukebox music just to see how long it would take Freddie to crack a smile. Mitch doesn't have to do either of those things, though, because the door bells jingle and in walks Auston Matthews. Auston seats himself at the diner, six stools from where Mitch is standing. Mitch tries to catch Syd’s eyes from across the dining room to, like, alert her of this sudden plot development, but she’s fully occupied by her table. He has to do this alone, then. So be it.

“Um, hi? What can I get you?” Mitch asks, kind of put off by the timidity in his voice.

Auston looks unfazed, like he barely heard Mitch’s question. “Do you ever feel like if you show people who you really are, they won’t accept you?” he asks. He seems to have completely forgotten their interaction from earlier in the day.

Mitch pauses. “Uh, _yeah_ , actually. Like they want you to be someone you’re not.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Auston answers, fiddling with the menu. “Sushi and donuts? Who put this menu together?” 

Mitch shrugs.

“I’ll have a coffee, please.”

Mitch places a cup in front of Auston and goes to grab the pot of coffee off its burner. In Auston’s silence, Mitch feels himself get brave. The diner is a comfortable, neutral space away from school. And Auston being alone, unaccompanied by his usual crowd of friends means that there’s less of a chance of this blowing up in Mitch’s face. He sees Pat watching him from the other side of the diner. “Yeah, sometimes it feels like… like you’re wearing a mask.”

Auston’s head snaps up, and Mitch feels his heart rate accelerate. “That’s totally it,”

“And — and you just want to tell that person it’s _me_ , I’m the one you’re looking for.”

Mitch sees Auston’s eyes widen momentarily. “ _Yes_ , you’re so right!”

“Auston, I have to tell you something — ”

Mitch is interrupted by the chiming of the door bells, and Fiona calling for him shrilly — “ _Mitch,_ come here,”

“One second!” Mitch calls back, and Auston raises his eyebrows.

“It’s fine, I have to go, anyway. But thanks for the talk, uh, Mitch.”

Mitch realizes belatedly that this is the first time Auston’s spoken his name — his _real_ name.

 

* * *

 

 **Nomad609** : _I really miss you. This is killing me. When can we meet for real?_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _I’m sorry. It’s killing me too. I really want to tell u who I am, but everyone’s super invested in this search & I don’t want all that attention_  
**Nomad609** : _I told Willy I didn’t want flyers. Goddamn_  
**PrincetonBoy818** : _Promise we’ll meet soon.  
_ **Nomad609** : _plz!!_

 

* * *

 

Mitch is running late.

He and Matt were having a pancake batter-flicking war, and it was all going fine until Syd grabbed the squeeze bottle of batter reserved for fun kid shapes and sneak attacked them from the corner of the kitchen. At that point, it was game over, and Mitch ended up washing thick pancake batter out of his hair for twenty minutes. And no velocity of peddling is enough to make up for that loss of time.

He’s out of breath by the time he pulls up to the bike rack, but he manages to wrap the chain around the spokes and lock it with ten minutes to spare before class starts.

As he pushes through the doors, he notices the people in the hallway clock him, and then whisper amongst themselves. The staring and whispering continues for the duration of his hustle over to his locker. Mitch is usually the guy people graze over in order to look at something else in the distance, so it’s a little unsettling. Maybe he didn’t manage to get all the damn pancake batter out of his hair. He shrugs it off, though, and focuses on grabbing his textbooks for first and second period and shoving them into his bag.

Before he can shut his locker, Dylan and Connor step up to him in synch, like the twins from _The Shining_ or something.

“Have you seen Twitter?” Dylan asks, frantic.

Mitch looks around. “Kind of without a phone, remember?”

Dylan and Connor drag him into an empty classroom. Connor lifts up his phone to reveal a thread of Tweets. Mitch narrows his eyes to read them. 

Screenshots. Dozens of them.

The caption on the tweets is just _Nomad = @AM34, PrincetonBoy = @marner93_.

Mitch feels his jaw drop, but he can’t locate the mechanism within him to close his mouth. He can’t even move. All his muscles feel like they’ve atrophied. He manages enough force to scroll through the thread. There are at least fifty replies so far, and twice as many likes.

_PrincetonBoy? More like DinerBoy_.

_god someone stop me if i ever get this pathetic_

_LOL_

_this rando cannot actually be serious abt @AM34 ?? is he unaware that @TheShelbyCummings is queen B ???????_

“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” Mitch pleads. It’s too early in the day to start crying, probably. Mitch feels like his entire heart has been pulled from his ribcage and stomped on by hundreds of Twitter handles.

“I’m _so sorry_ , but — ”

“— this is real.”

Mitch looks from Dylan to Connor and back. “How did — _who_ did — ?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Connor says.

“We _promise_ ,” Dylan chimes in.

To their credit, they help him piece everything together. Mitch’s laptop at home is password protected, but he left it open one night when he was rushing to cover an evening shift at the diner. The only likely conclusion is that Chucky and Brady snuck in his room, read the messages, and — in their incredibly misguided and malicious desire to be a part of the in crowd at school — took screenshots and sent them to Shelby. Who decided to post them to Twitter from an anonymous account is beyond the capabilities of their joint Nancy Drew effort, for now. Not that it really matters. The damage is done, and the Twitter thread only keeps racking up mean-spirited replies. As the slowest week of Mitch’s life progresses, he finds himself praying for the night to swallow him whole, just so he won’t have to face the nightmare of his daily life. The diner, which was once at least a safe place he could breathe easy from the predictability of school, is now full of kids from North Valley High who are ballsy enough to sit there and gawk at him but not to admit they trashed him on the internet. Fiona’s probably thrilled about the influx of new business. 

“How you doing, buddy?” Dylan asks. They’re eating lunch in the English classroom, because even the teachers are aware of what’s going on, and Mr. Babcock was at least cool enough to offer a small piece of respite.

“I haven’t read what people have been saying,” Mitch confesses. He’s been too afraid to even go near the library computers, and his homework productivity is really taking a hit because of it. Not to mention ugly notes stuck to his locker have been deterring him from getting his books.

“You probably wouldn’t want to,” Connor answers, and then says “ _what_?” when Dylan kicks him under the table.

“The Cliff Notes version is that high schoolers suck and everyone at this school is so far up Auston and Shelby’s ass that they don’t give a shit about who they tear down along the way."

“It’s dramatic but true.”

Mitch shrugs. “Auston hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t even messaged me, which is the worst part.”

Auston’s complete radio silence weighs on Mitch, and he feels the disappointment heavy in his gut. Maybe he expected too much. Maybe he thought he knew Auston, when all he really knew was a small fraction of him that existed in his _Nomad_ alter ego. He knew it was too great a difference to reconcile cleanly. 

“He probably doesn’t know what to say?” Connor suggests weakly.

“He could start with _sorry my psycho ex-girlfriend posted screenshots of our private conversation on Twitter and everyone’s making fun of you for it for some reason_ ,” Dylan answers, “man, I really hate him. Who does he think he is? I mean honestly.”

“But really, Mitchy,” Connor adds, “everyone will forget this by next week and then in a few months you’ll be packing up and moving to the other side of the country.” 

“Still mad at you for that, by the way,” Dylan says, his mouth full of burrito. 

Mitch lets their words wash over him as he chews idly on his sandwich. Honestly, they’re not wrong. They’re really not wrong.

 

* * *

 

By Thursday, Mitch’s locker is still unceremoniously decorated with a slew of profane notes. The kind of notes the faculty and/or custodial staff should keep track of and get rid of on their own. Instead, Mitch is forced to tear them down himself. He doesn’t read them; he read the first few and they made his stomach sink. Some had drawings of _Diner Boy_ and Auston on them. None of those drawings had a happy ending. None of them depicted the situation in an even remotely accurate or fair way. So Mitch stopped looking at them, choosing instead to collect them and dump them blindly in the closest recycling bin. In collecting the latest wealth of bullying material, Mitch almost misses the envelope also taped to the front of his locker. He peers inside and finds —

his phone. There’s a post-it note stuck to the back of it. All it says is _sorry about all this_.

So Auston’s been to his locker. Which means Auston’s seen what people have been doing to it, how they’ve been treating Mitch all for — what, exactly? Meeting someone on the internet he really connected with? Expressing his deepest hopes and desires for college and the future? Falling into some version of love with a guy who happened to be the star quarterback? How, in all versions of this universe, is that the worst imaginable thing a guy can do? When everyone else is fucking around on Snapchat or Tinder, getting themselves into identical situations, how is what Mitch did any more embarrassing, any more worthy of bullying? How is it so much more embarrassing for him, and how has Auston come out unscathed — like nothing’s changed? 

Mitch balls up the post-it in his fist and dumps it into the recycling bin, along with all the other notes.

 

* * *

 

Mitch sprawls out on the floor that night and thinks about what Connor said. No, this isn’t the end of the world. He only has to endure a few more months of this before he can pack up for college. Plus, there are only a few more months left before he turns eighteen and can move out. It’s really hard not to hate Auston, though. It’s hard, and yet Mitch can’t bring himself to — to fully resign himself to the truth that apparently Auston is just like every other jerk in this town.

The quiet doesn’t last. It rarely does. Soon enough, he hears the clacking of Fiona’s heels against the marble floors, the sound of it echoing throughout the house.

“Sweetie," Fiona says, knocking on his bedroom door as she it, like she usually does. Mitch wants to point out that the knocking is kind of pointless if she’s just gonna open the door without his permission anyway. “You’ve got a letter.”

Mitch bolts upright. He doesn’t get mail. All his bills are electronic, and nobody he knows would ever pen him a letter. He doesn’t even get junk mail, which means it can only be one thing —

Princeton.

Fiona hands the pristine white envelope over to him. She doesn’t even pretend to withhold it, like she sometimes does when she has to hand him something. Mitch grabs it carefully from her manicured hand, not wanting his first encounter with his Princeton letter to be malicious. He slowly pries it open and works the letter from the envelope.

“Dear Mr. Marner,” he reads aloud, slowly, “thank you for your interest in Princeton University. We — ”

He stops reading, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes.

“What does it say, honey?” Fiona asks.

Mitch swallows. It feels heavy in his throat. “We… regret to inform you that your application has not been selected for further admission into our program — I. I didn’t get in,” he says, incredulous. He swipes at a tear, pushing it away before it can fall — in front of Fiona, of all people. How is this _possible_?

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Fiona says, sounding anything _but_ , “And you worked _so hard_.”

Mitch feels numb. He can’t process this. He _did_ work hard. He worked his ass off. Not only in school — but every night, at the diner. Busting his ass, saving every penny of the minimum wage salary Fiona’s been paying him since he was thirteen, _building character_ in a way that should have shone on a college essay. It’s then that Mitch notices the plate of cookies in Fiona’s hand.

“Want a cookie?” she asks, as if on cue, holding the plate out to him.

“I’m not hungry,” Mitch answers, tossing the letter in the general direction of his wastebasket. It misses.

“Suit yourself,” Fiona says, as she takes a cooke from the top of the plate and bites into it. Her face barely moves as she chews it, eyes locked in a frighteningly friendly position from the botox. “Look at it this way — now you’ll be able to stay at the diner forever.”

 

* * *

 

If things were different, Nomad — _Auston_ — would be the first person Mitch would want to tell. As pathetic as it is, Auston is probably the only person in his life who’d understand the profound, crushing disappointment of rejection from Princeton.

Maybe he’d be too embarrassed to bring it up, though. Their relationship was predicated on their shared goal of actually attending Princeton, after all. And besides, things _aren’t_ different. 

It’s not that Dylan and Connor won’t be sympathetic. They’re the best friends a person could ask for. And they’ve been incredible throughout the whole disaster of the past week. It’s just that no matter what, no matter how many times they visit the diner, or clandestinely sneak in his window at night, no matter how many horror stories Mitch tells them, they’ll _never_ understand what it’s like to live with Fiona, Chucky, and Brady. What it’s like to want to leave so desperately, to plan it all out so meticulously — only to have that plan crash and fucking burn. 

They’ll also never know what it’s like to have their most vulnerable moments screenshotted and shared on _Twitter_ , for the whole school and internet to ridicule. And to have the one person they trusted most deeply with that information, a person the whole town admires, not even step up and defend him for it.

Mitch always assumed he’d have Princeton. Princeton was a sure thing, as far as he was concerned. All he had to do was survive another few months in this suffocating town, and he’d be out of there for good. He has a 4.0 and he got a perfect SAT score. His essay was rock solid. There was no possibility of _not_ getting it. Rejection never even crossed his mind. Maybe he should have tried to fit an extracurricular in there somewhere, or joined a sports team in freshman year, like most people aiming for top colleges did. Like Auston did. Mitch wants to ask Auston if he got into Princeton. He doesn’t doubt that he did.

 

* * *

 

Mitch can’t be in the house. That place has always been a reminder of everything he’s lost, and now, it’s a reminder of everything he’ll never have. All his plans and aspirations and all the ways they’ll never come to fruition. He was _so certain_ he’d get into Princeton that he didn’t even bother applying anywhere else. Not even to any of the local colleges.

Without fully realizing it, Mitch rides his bike to the diner. The diner, Mitch supposes, has reluctantly become a kind of retreat. Mitch hesitates to use the word _oasis_ , but he feels safe there, because of Patty and Syd and Matt and Freddie. People from school still linger for a sight of the infamous humiliated meme of the week, and Mitch suspects he’ll be known as Diner Boy at least until they graduate, but he still finds himself actually _wanting_ to be there. He knows everyone will somehow find a way to cheer him up again.

It turns out that Freddie’s best way for coping with disappointment is just playing all the songs by The Cranberry’s that the jukebox has on catalog, and giving Mitch a curt and otherwise expressionless nod. It’s not terrible, if Mitch is being honest.

“Look, kid, I’ve known you a _long time_ and I’ve never seen you this down,” Syd says, before skating down the diner to table five. When she rolls back to the counter, Mitch gives her a shrug.

“I shouldn’t have put all my eggs in that fucking basket,” he says.

“ _Language_ ,” Matt calls from the window in the kitchen. Mitch flips him off, though Matt’s probably too busy cooking to see him.

“You’ll figure something out, Mitchy. You can move out when you turn eighteen, at least.”

“No offence, Syd, but even the east coast isn’t far enough from Fiona,”

Matt comes out of the kitchen to personally deliver Mitch’s burger to him. “We’re all here for you, man. It’ll get better.”

Everyone leaves him alone when he starts to eat, for which Mitch is grateful. He’s thankful to have a moment of peace while surrounded by the best people he knows.

For the first time in a while, Mitch gets the urge to check his socials, if only to distract him from one shitty situation with another. Facebook is full of people posting their acceptance letters, and the more Mitch scrolls, the more he hopes he comes across something from Auston. Instagram is more of the same, but Auston’s been silent there, too. It actually takes a considerable amount of fucking courage for Mitch to check Twitter. His DMs are still a landmine, full of spiteful people accusing him of “stealing” Auston away from either Shelby or themselves, or calling him pathetic and sad, and he doesn’t know that he has skin thick enough to deal with awful, cowardly teenagers today. He decides to bypass the bullshit and go directly to Auston’s profile, to see if he’s addressed _any of this_ lately. Mitch isn’t surprised to find he hasn’t. Blackout on all channels — smart move. It doesn’t stop him from refreshing his timeline a few times. After the fourth, it updates with a new tweet:

_looking forward 2 the game this wknd #gofrogsgo_

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mitch gets to work twenty minutes before opening. His apron is ironed, and he managed to polish his roller skates the night before, so they’re practically sparkling. He unlocks the diner without waiting for Patty and gets to work on the floors right away. If he’s going to be at this diner forever, he may as well do a good job of it. Since there’s nothing else to live for, now.

Mitch is in a cleaning trance when Patty comes in.

“What are you doing?”

He stands up, a little wobbly. The bleach really makes him dizzy. “I’m cleaning,”

Patty shakes his head. “No, I mean _what are you doing_? You never get here before me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean with such…determination.”

“I just figured,” Mitch answers, picking up his bucket of soapy water and hauling it to the other end of the diner, “if I’m gonna be doing this forever, might as well do it right.”

When he looks up, Patty is standing directly above him, holding out his scrubber brush. Mitch takes it.

“You're not gonna be here forever, kid.”

“Patty, it’s fine. College isn’t for everyone. I can see a future here…sort of.”

“Mitch, Princeton has been your dream for years. Maybe college isn’t for everyone, but it’s definitely for _you_ , and I cannot watch you just _settle_ like this. I won’t let you give up. You’re better than this diner, Mitch. You’re better than North Valley, and better than _that woman_.”

Mitch smiles bitterly. “I didn’t get into Princeton,”

“Screw Princeton,” Pat says, and Mitch wants to scoff, but Pat’s got that look on his face that says he’s not going to take any shit. “Kid, I’ve known you too long. You’re not the quitting type.”

Mitch gestures at the mop and bucket. “I’m not quitting, though.”

Pat pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mitch, if you’re planning on working here forever, you _are_ quitting.”

Whatever fake resolve Mitch had built up in his mind suddenly dissolves, gets knocked down by the sheer brunt of Patty’s words. He’s right, and Mitch knows it.

“So what am I supposed to do?” He asks, and if his voice trembles a little, Patty’s not the kind of person who’d ever point it out.

Patty doesn’t get a chance to answer before Fiona bursts through the doors of the diner, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber charging in behind her. Mitch has never been able to tell whether Chucky and Brady are playing or fighting. Today is no different; they’re wrestling in the doorway of the diner, each trying to seize the other in a successful headlock.

“ _Boys_ , close the door,” Fiona calls, although her gaze is glued to her phone, acrylic nails clacking loudly against its screen.

A few solid seconds pass before Fiona’s instruction reaches either of their ears. As if without thinking, Brady grabs the door handle and slams it back into place. It makes the whole diner shake. The impact of the door rattling in its frame is enough to make the faux Elvis guitar fall off its mount on the wall, taking a major section of pink wallpaper with it. 

“Oh, Christ,” Brady swears.

Mitch looks up to the wall, trying to assess the damage. That’s gonna cost at least a hundred dollars to fix. He’s gonna have to check if Fiona kept the wallpaper somewhere in their storage locker, and it’ll be a pain trying to line up the old wallpaper with a new piece. At least one trip to Home Depot, maybe two, depending on if he’ll have to remove more in order to make the seams clean. Mitch is so lost in his calculations, he barely notices Pat holding onto his shoulder.

“Mitch — ”

“What?”

Mitch follows his gaze to the section of the wall Pat is pointing at, and he gasps. The wall is painted blue from Mitch’s baby pictures, the blue from his dreams. In sprawling white letters reads, _Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game_. 

His dad’s favourite saying. 

Mitch had somehow forgotten it, but seeing it now, painted on the wall of the diner, he remembers it vividly. His dad always preferred baseball, anyway, which is why Mitch was never really interested in football. He was amazing. Compassionate and fun and trying his best. Mitch knows, deep down, that his dad only married Fiona to expedite a replacement maternal figure in Mitch’s life, which maybe only backfired entirely. Dad would hate to see Mitch like this, beaten down, worked to the bone, rejected from the only college he desperately wanted to go to. But then, if his dad was so concerned about Mitch’s future and wellbeing, wouldn’t he have left some kind of will? Not just leave the fate of his child up to a woman he dated for four months before marrying? This is why Mitch tries not to dwell too much on his dad, and tries his best to remember all the good things about him. But it’s hard to block out the flaws and the pain without also blocking out the happy memories and profoundly well-timed quotes.

“What _is this_?” Mitch asks.

“This,” Patty answers, reaching up to tear down more of the wallpaper, “this is what the diner looked like when your dad was running it.”

The more wallpaper Patty tears down, the more memories come flooding back to Mitch. 

_Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game_.

Mitch reads the quote over and over, and over again. His dad wouldn’t want him to give up; he’d push Mitch, help him think of alternative options. Like taking a few community college classes and applying again in the winter. He’d be patient and listen to Mitch, and he’d rub Mitch’s back, and get him a glass of warm milk. His dad wouldn’t want Mitch to be here, feeling sorry for himself, resigning himself to a lifetime of working at a diner run by his psychotic stepmother. His dad would want better for him.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Fiona shrieks, “Patrick, you _can’t_ do that.”

Mitch’s eyes snap up to Fiona. She can’t talk to Patty like that — not after everything he’s done for Mitch. Not after he took Mitch under his wing and practically _raised_ him, better than she ever could. As Mitch sees more and more of his dad’s diner, he grows increasingly more confident. The vision of what his dad would want for him crystallizes in his mind, and in turn, his fear of Fiona and the confines of his current life dwindles to little more than a whisper.

Patty stops tearing down the pink wallpaper, but he doesn’t bother like he’s got even an ounce of shame.

Fiona narrows her gaze, turning her attention to Mitch. “I’ve got Soul Cycle in an hour and then I’m starting my juice cleanse, so I’m gonna need you to clean the pool tonight.”

For the first time in his entire life, Mitch levels Fiona with an even stare and says, “No.”

He can feel the rest of the diner halt at that single syllable. There’s no sound of roller blades crossing the linoleum, or bacon sizzling on the griddle — there’s jut the sound of Elvis on the dimmest speaker setting and of Fiona, breathing through her nose. 

“What did you — ”

Before she can finish her sentence, Mitch tears the apron off his waist and chucks it on the ground. “I quit. I quit this job, I quit this family, and guess what? I quit your house. I’m moving out.”

Fiona cracks a smile, taught and papery on her tanned face. “And where do you think you’ll _go_?”

Patty steps up and wraps an arm around Mitch’s shoulders. “With _me_.”

Mitch whips his head up to look at Patty. Pat’s got a wife and four kids, he can’t be serious. “Really?” Mitch mouths. Patty nods, firm.

“You can’t just walk out, Mitch, don’t be stupid,” Fiona says. She still looks icy, but her countenance is a little shaken.

“Watch me. You can mess with your hair and your face and even my dad’s diner. But you’re through messing with me.”

Pat undoes his own apron and tosses it on the ground next to Mitch’s. “The only reason I’ve stuck around all these years is because of this kid, and I’m not about the abandon him now. I quit, too.”

“Me too,” Syd says, throwing her pad and pen down on the counter.

“Me _too,_ ” Matt calls, coming out of the kitchen to join them.

Mitch turns around to look at them all. The waitresses are all in the process of declaring their resignation. Freddie has emerged from the back, even though Mitch swears he wasn’t supposed to be working today, and looks stoic as ever at Matt’s side.

“If Mitch goes, we all go,” Freddie says, out of nowhere. It’s possibly the most Mitch has heard him speak all at once, and Mitch hardly realized he felt so strongly about him at all. When Mitch makes his way to the exit, the entire staff follows. Mitch is heartened to find the few patrons, seated for their breakfast, get up and leave as well.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure about this?”

“For the millionth time, Mitch, _yes_. Our home is your home. Always.” Christina says, as she tucks a set of sheets into their living room couch. 

He locks eyes with Patty over her shoulder, and doesn’t know how he could even begin expressing his gratitude. Every time he opens his mouth, he comes up short.

Mitch can’t sleep. Light from the streetlamp still seeps through the curtains, and Mitch can’t block it at a comfortable angle. He wasn’t surprised to learn that his entire life more or less fit into a single suitcase, but he was surprised by the extent and immediacy of the Marleaus’ hospitality. Even though it’s half the size of Fiona’s house, he hasn’t felt this at home in years.

The house is still and dark, the kids having gone to bed hours ago. The reality of what transpired hasn’t fully hit Mitch yet, and maybe it’s that — that feeling like simultaneously nothing and everything has changed — that makes Mitch’s mind wander to Auston. All the bullshit from Twitter, and Auston’s sudden virtual disappearance all feels light years in the past. Most people have moved on already, their attention luckily turning to the next viral sensation, but Mitch’s entire life — the deepest, most vulnerable parts of it — were completely upturned and examined and devoured, and Auston was nowhere to be found. It was stupid, probably, to place that much faith in someone he didn’t actually know that well. Auston compartmentalized himself to Mitch. There was the incredible, compassionate, funny, brilliant person who sent Mitch all those messages, and then there was Auston Matthews, star athlete, and all that entailed. Mitch never did get a chance to reconcile those two identities, and maybe that’s his own fault — not stepping up and revealing his identity sooner. Either way, he had so hoped Auston would turn out to be different. 

But that’s life, Mitch guesses. Even bright lights dim.

 

* * *

 

 

 **PrincetonBoy818** : _I don’t know if u even still come here but  
_ **PrincetonBoy818** : _what happened wasn’t cool._

 

In the morning, Mitch checks the messages. Auston still hasn’t read them.

 

* * *

 

North Valley still hasn’t had rain in three months. 

It’s been dry and suffocating and impossible, but you’d hardly be able to tell, the way everyone’s been talking. That’s because Saturday night is the big game. The whole town is consumed by it — it’s all anyone can talk about. The Marleaus and their boys are going, Syd and Matt are going, Freddie is probably going to lurk at the back of the stands. 

Dylan and Connor, in a show of solidarity, volunteer not to go. They offer to take him bowling and to ask Dylan’s brother to buy them beer, and to just flake on the whole event. And not that Mitch doesn’t appreciate their concern, but he’s sick of being treated like he’s fragile, like he’ll fall apart at any moment. However, to be fair, he’s not sure he could trust the two of them within a hundred feet of Auston without them trying to have a go at him on Mitch's behalf.

So Mitch tamps down his unease, and decides, on behalf of their friend group, that they’ll be in attendance at the game. If the school is already over him, it can’t be so bad. He’ll go, and he’ll sit with his friends, and he’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. He even helps paint the Marleau boys’ faces with the school colours.

Except that there’s still one string tethering his pain to the game. Mitch knows himself well enough to know that he won’t be able to rest until he clears the air with Auston. He needs to say his piece, because he waited too long to say something last time, and it ended, well, with this.

Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, Mitch finds himself standing in front of the boys’ locker room. Ten minutes before warmups start. There’s a list as long as North Valley of all the things he wants to say, but Mitch has zero game plan. No direction. No starting point. Just the raw, tender _ache_ of falling for someone and having the entire student body strip that away. Having the one person he wanted to trust the most, the person he thought understood him the most, turn out to be the complete opposite of who he imagined.

Mitch probably shouldn’t even be here. It’s, like, probably a monumentally stupid thing for him to be here. Even stupider for him to push open the door with nothing but words like fire, hot on his tongue.

Mitch isn’t short, but he’s easily the smallest guy in the room. At first, he probably passes for a water boy, but people slowly start to recognize him as he charges through the room. It earns him a few catcalls. A few people call him Diner Boy, but the taunt is getting real old. He’s tired of being a punching bag for insecure people, of getting made fun of for putting himself out there the way everyone does. He’s tired of Auston being a coward and getting away with it. Most of all, he’s just tired. After scouring the different rows of the locker room, Mitch finally gets to Auston’s locker. He’s sitting on the bench, with his back to Mitch, deep in conversation with Willy Nylander. Mitch ignores the very real fact that Auston is shirtless with nothing but his shoulder pads to cover up his chest. Willy nudges Auston when he notices Mitch.

Auston whips his head around immediately, and Mitch wants to cry at how much he desperately wanted Auston to be different. How _badly_ he wanted Auston to just _be there_.

“Mitch? You’re — what are you — ? Listen — ”

“No, Auston, _you_ listen,” Mitch says, with a confidence that feels wobbly around the edges, a bike without training wheels, “You’re _exactly_ who I thought you were, all along. You turned out to be the guy you told me you weren’t. But guess what? I never pretended to be anyone I’m not, because believe it or not, I’m proud of who I am. Even though _I’m_ the one who got humiliated in front of the whole school.”

Auston looks shell-shocked, and _good_ — he should. He should feel shitty for letting people treat Mitch the way they did. He should feel guilty for not stepping up and defending Mitch the way he fucking should have.

“You — you have _no idea_ what I’ve been going through. And I know you probably don’t care. But for the record, I may have no family, no job, and no money for college, but _you’re_ the one I really feel sorry for.”

Mitch is on a fucking _roll_. He wishes Stromer or Davo were around to fist bump. Adrenaline is coursing through his entire body and he feels dizzy with it. He doesn’t even feel everyone else’s eyes on him, even though he knows they’re all staring.

“Yo, Auston — five minutes!” Someone shouts.

“I’m _coming_!” Auston hollers back. He turns to look back at Mitch, and his eyes are searching, pleading. Mitch can’t tell if Auston looks sad or sorry or frustrated, and he realizes that, right now, he can’t care.

“I’m sure that the guy who sent me those messages is still somewhere inside you, but I — can’t wait for him. Because waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought,” Mitch levels Auston with an even stare, unwavering as he says, “useless and disappointing.”

With that, Mitch turns on his heel and walks away. This time, nobody catcalls. The room is dead silent. What Mitch really feels like doing is running, bolting, getting the hell out of that locker room, but he doesn’t. Instead, he maintains a steady, confident pace. He hears Auston call his name, but he doesn’t turn back. The calls are followed by a loud clang, which sounds an awful lot like a fist hitting a locker, but Mitch doesn’t turn back. Instead, he makes his way towards the football field. It luckily doesn’t take him too long to spot Dylan and Connor in the crowd. That’s mainly because they’re sitting in the middle of the sands, near the emergency exit, since Connor gets paranoid about crowds.

“Auston Matthews is a certified _dick_ , and you want to watch him play football. Remind me again why that’s such a good idea?” Dylan hisses, when Mitch finally squeezes into his seat.

“I’m letting it go,” Mitch answers, though he’s not entirely sure who he’s trying to convince more — Dylan or himself.

He’s — things are different, now. The locker room was charged with a crazy electricity; Mitch barely recognizes himself in the emboldened confrontational guy who stood up to Auston Matthews, but he’s glad he did. He said his piece. He may not really have anything, besides his friends and whatever’s left of his dignity and his dad’s words, sprawled across the diner wall, but he feels okay. It’s a start.

Mitch ignores it when Connor shoots Dylan a concerned look over his shoulders, and tries to focus on the game. Connor and Dylan are only uncomfortable because they’re worried about him, which is nice. They’re good friends. Mitch wants them to think he’s fine; he doesn’t want them to worry about him anymore than they’ve already done these past, like, five years. 

Mitch has to be the only person in this whole town who doesn’t care about football right now, who isn’t desperately focused on the game. He probably couldn’t tell anyone what’s been happening in the past quarter of the game; his focus is elsewhere, despite himself. He registers the time passing, the seconds ticking by on the giant scoreboard, but he feels glued in place.

At halftime, the teams run off the field and are replaced by the pep squad, with Shelby at the helms. Mitch feels his throat get tight. He never confronted her about her inevitable hand in this mess, but she shot him a few self-satisfied smirks from across the hallway. It seemed like her maligned way of establishing dominance. But over what, exactly, is lost on Mitch.

“We can go, if you want,” Connor says, nudging him.

“I’m _fine_ , I can do this.” Mitch insists. He appreciates their concern, but tonight is about proving to himself that life goes on, even when moving on feels impossible.

Before Mitch fully realizes, the game reaches its final play. Everyone, hundreds upon hundreds of people, all start shouting Auston’s name. 

_Auston. Auston. Auston._

Over and over again, like that’s not the only thought that’s been on Mitch’s mind since the homecoming dance. It’s a nightmare. How did he ever think he stood a chance?

“Guys, I thought I could do this, but I really can’t,” he says, standing up, “I’m gonna go.”

Connor and Dylan share a look. “You know what, we’ll tell you how it ends,” Dylan says.

Mitch nods, and stands up. He starts squeezing past people in the stands, carefully shuffling past people who can’t for the life of them understand why Mitch would want to leave before the final play. The whole crowd is still chanting Auston’s name, like one big sick joke. It’s a vivid, glaring reminder of everything that went wrong, everything Mitch never got the chance to have. 

Mitch doesn’t look at the field as he makes his way over to the stairs. He doesn’t want to see Auston make that play, to be the hometown hero he’s destined to be. 

Mitch doesn’t look at the field, so he doesn’t see Auston running off it, despite his dad’s angry calls. 

Mitch doesn’t look at the field, so he doesn’t see Auston handing the reins over to Willy, the backup quarterback. 

Mitch doesn’t look at the field, so he doesn’t see Auston dropping his helmet and charging up into the stands to meet Mitch before he disappears.

Mitch doesn’t look at the field, but when he looks up, suddenly Auston is there. Right there, on the stairs, in front of him. For the first time since the homecoming dance, Mitch feels hope.

“Auston, what are you doing?” Mitch asks.

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” Auston answers. 

With that, he leans down and presses their lips together. 

Mitch freezes, before realizing that he’s supposed to move in this situation. His arms find their way around Auston’s neck on instinct, and he has to push into his tiptoes to reach. Auston tastes like salt and spearmint gum. Mitch can feel people’s eyes on them. The whole crowd’s attention has shifted to Auston Matthews, star quarterback of the North Valley Fighting Frogs, giving up the last play of the last game of the season to chase down Mitch Marner, infamous Diner Boy.

Mitch is so busy _freaking out_ that he barely registers the drop of water falling from the sky, bouncing off Auston’s nose and landing on Mitch’s upper lip. That drop is followed by another, and then another, and pretty soon, actual rain is falling over the stands, the field, and all of North Valley. It’s nothing short of miraculous.

“Sorry I waited for the rain” Auston says, sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” Mitch answers, and he leans in for another kiss. Auston tips his chin to slot their lips together again.

His lips are chaste and warm, and he smells like sweat and Old Spice deodorant. Everything about this is so different from the homecoming dance. There, Auston was open and shy and brighter than a thousand string lights, brighter than all the stars in the California sky. Here — Mitch could barely watch him on the field; it hurt too much and too deep, in ways Mitch wasn’t prepared for. _This_ , though — Mitch can hardly believe this is happening, that Auston is right here, and that he’s kissing Mitch like Mitch is the best thing he’s ever tasted. Like Mitch is the only thing he’s ever known. Like there’s no place else he could conceivably be. Mitch could get used to it, if he’s being honest. 

It doesn’t change everything, but something definitely shifts, altering the course of Mitch’s life henceforth. Considering the events of the past few weeks, it’s nothing new. 

Eventually, the referee blows his whistle so hard Mitch is worried he popped a blood vessel or something. It mostly rouses the crowd, draws their focus back to the field, now slick with mud. A few people are still staring at them, though, so Mitch nods enthusiastically when Auston asks, through a dopey grin and half-lidded eyes — 

“You wanna get out of here?”

Like some giant cliché directly imported from Mitch’s wildest dreams. 

“Where should we go?” Mitch asks, when he’s buckling into the passenger’s seat of Auston’s refurbished fucking convertible from the sixties.

“The diner?” Auston suggests. Mitch shrieks out a laugh. “What?”

“No, we can’t go there. I kind of quit.”

“You _quit_? But what about your stepmom?”

“Yeah, I kind of told her off? I moved out, too. It’s a little wild, actually. I’m like a vagabond.”

Auston smiles, and _god_ , Mitch knows nobody should look good under the jarring fluorescent lights of a high school parking lot, but he’ll be damned if Auston’s not the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever laid eyes on. “Well, my dad probably won’t want me around much tonight, what with me throwing away his dreams and all. So we can be vagabonds together.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mitch answers.

Auston covers Mitch’s hand with his own. “Mitch, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was a total asshole and you deserve so much better and — ”

“Hey,” Mitch replies, “let’s not do this now, okay? For now, let’s just get out of here. Let’s just drive.”

So they do.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

 

In the days that follow, a lot of things happen. 

On a rainy afternoon, Mitch finds himself flipping through the big book of fairytales his dad used to read him every night. Until now, he’d barely touched it, blocking out the pain stirred by those memories. Mitch is astonished to find that, tucked away, deep within its pages, his dad’s will had been hiding there for the past seven years. It turns out _Mitch_ owns the diner as soon as he turns eighteen — a right he is happy to forfeit to Patty.

The DA gets involved, because cases like this happen, well, never. It isn’t pretty, but it does get Fiona to admit she counterfeited the rejection letter from Princeton. Mitch actually got in, on a partial scholarship. As punishment for violating his dad’s will, and for her infraction of several California child labour laws, Fiona has to serve a community service sentence, and Mitch gets to repossess her cars and sell them for tuition money, to boot. He sympathizes with his stepbrothers, but only enough to get them jobs cleaning the diner — now restored to its former glory. They even got the whole staff to return, once the transfer of ownership was complete.

Dylan and Connor both got into Stanford, which is fitting, since Mitch genuinely can’t picture them doing a single thing apart. Except for lacrosse, but that’s a bridge they’ve long since crossed. And who knows, maybe them sharing a 130 square foot dorm room will be the exact push they need to realize they’re perfect for each other.

And as for Auston — he quit football indefinitely, much to his dad’s chagrin. Unsurprisingly, he also got into Princeton, and enrolled with an English lit major. Also, after publicly absolving himself, and admonishing the student body for their horrendous treatment of Mitch on Twitter, he privately asked Mitch on a real date. And Mitch said yes. Believe it or not.

“Crazy, right?” Mitch asks, hopping into the passenger’s seat of that obnoxious, refurbished blue convertible from the sixties.

“Absolutely insane.” Auston answers with a grin.

They both plan on attending Princeton in the Fall, and are currently looking into student housing. Separately, of course. Mitch’ll only be a freshman, after all.

 

 

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sequel involves Dylan and Connor accidentally kissing in their small dorm at Stanford multiple times and freaking out, and both of them having separate hushed, frantic FaceTime calls with Mitch about it.  
> \- What is it with me and rainy kisses with these two?  
> \- If I were really brave, Mitch would’ve been the cool one and Auston would have been the outcast, but the Austin-Auston symmetry worked so well I couldn’t NOT
> 
> Also, hey, follow my [writing blog](https://oldjolt.tumblr.com), if you want!


End file.
